


From now on, our troubles will be out of sight

by hopefor46



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Feelings Realization, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21722821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefor46/pseuds/hopefor46
Summary: Nine Christmases at the Farrow farm.
Relationships: Ronan Farrow/Jon Lovett
Comments: 11
Kudos: 99
Collections: Crooked Secret Santa 2019





	From now on, our troubles will be out of sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orangeemily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeemily/gifts).

2018.

“Jacques Cousteau was _not _a cake maker!” Ronan calls out from behind the camera. Jon got up on Christmas morning with a head full of “The Great British Baking Show” and the determination to make a _bûche de Noël _worthy of capturing on film as well as eating. His nieces and nephews keep wandering in to watch.  
Mia, of course, is rooting for him, while casually being concerned he’ll burn himself or set something on fire. To the latter point, there was the figgy pudding from last year that set the smoke alarm off… but it wasn’t really a fire.

Jon’s eyes are half-closed in concentration as he arranges the two halves of the log together, carefully, getting ready to apply the ganache. What he’s lost in youthful energy he’s gained in patience over the years; Ronan has seen him drain a full pot of pasta while it was more rock-solid than _al dente_. Jon’s half-covered in powdered sugar and has two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, and Ronan said he was going to go answer emails at some point, but he can’t stand to leave the kitchen. So he keeps filming.

On his way to the table, Jon pauses. “Picture please, Ro?” Ronan looks at him through the screen, solid chest, gentle curls, soft eyes. Ronan’s hit by a realization so strong he almost drops the phone. This is the man he’s going to marry. He’d thought about it before, of course, but now he knows for sure. As soon as he figures out how to do it.

“What are you staring at?” Jon calls to him when he puts the phone down. “Did you get my good side? I wanna see.”

Everyone loves the _bûche_, except Evangeline, who’s mean as hell. Ronan keeps catching Jon’s eye over dinner, till Jon looks at him quizzically and picks up his napkin, wondering if Ronan’s trying to signal he’s got icing on his face.

By this time next year, Ronan vows, he’ll be his for good.

2017.

Not for the first time, Jon catches Ronan on his laptop when he cracks an eye open after his nap.

“You’re working! You’re busted.”

“Only half busted,” Ronan protests, setting the laptop aside as Jon rolls over and climbs into his lap. He kisses Ronan sweetly.

“You promised me,” he says, “four days without work.”

“I know, I know! It’s just this one source I’ve been working with. They’re very—”

“Needy? So am I

“I just didn’t think I would be so busy _after_.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Seriously, though! I’m getting way more tips than I know what to do with. I’ve gotta hire an assistant or something. If I spent just 5 minutes on each of them, I’d never sleep.”

“And you hardly sleep now,” Jon says, brushing back the hair on Ronan’s forehead. He’s looking less rundown but he could use a few more solid weeks of sleep. Jon makes a mental note to take him somewhere for their anniversary next year. Maybe South America?

“At least the HBO thing is almost done. No more meetings at least.”

“Love that you think getting hired by another media conglomerate is gonna help you relaxed.”

“I’m relaxed, Jon.” Ronan trains his blue eyes straight on Jon’s, his gaze almost too piercing to bear. “You make me relaxed.”

“That Goan curry made _me _relaxed. How long was I out for?”

“Not too long. I wouldn’t let you miss the paper lanterns this afternoon.” One of the older nephews picked “Christmas in India” this year.

Jon kisses Ronan slowly, lets himself draw it out like they have four years and not four days. “Anything I can help with?”

“Mmmm, I don’t know,” Ronan says. “I may need you to stay right there and prevent me from getting sucked back in.”

“I’ll take care of you, baby,” he jokes. It was something he said right after the big break, and it made Ronan laugh so hard he dropped the phone. Jon can’t resist a callback.

“I’m happy to serve,” he says. “But just give me a few minutes to un-ruffle myself.”

“Still looking for that finery and smoothies,” Ronan calls as he’s walking down the hall.

“Right on top of that, Rose,” Jon volleys back.

They light up the farm with paper lanterns, and in the end, none of them catch fire. For the little ones, Jon devises a simpler craft using paper bags and battery operated candles, and they line the driveway with them too. Pundit runs around to sniff all of them, circling Jon’s feet with confusion. He wonders if she remembers the snow, if she’s confused or relieved every year when they get here. He scoops her up and kisses her head as they head inside.

2016.

Jon’s first flight’s delayed, and then he gets stuck at Midway overnight, with Pundit, which is just the fucking icing on the cake for this fucking year. After hours on hold, Jon gives up and rebooks himself from O’Hare direct to Hartford, because he promised Ronan he’d be there to light the menorah on the 24th.

He argues with Ronan over whether this is the best way to travel, because they were going to head up together on the train from New York City. Then he feels shitty about doing it, because there’s no enemy here. He’s not the only one with problems. Ronan’s brother died barely 4 months ago. And there’s his job. And Jon’s script. And there’s the whole fucking country.

“Please,” Ronan says, a novel in his lonely word. Pundit hears him on speakerphone.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “I love you. I’ll be there so soon,” nervously scanning the weather report in a browser tab, hoping it won’t prove him a liar.

He barely makes it before dinner, and the candles turn out to be the wrong size for the menorah Mia has dredged up from—somewhere, but Jon feels guilty that she’s gone to all the trouble, so he just holds it in his hand for what feels like a reasonable amount of time. He half-remembers the prayer his Hebrew school teacher tried to get them to say whenever they messed up in class. Maybe he should tack that one on.

Later he finds Ronan sitting by the fire, away from everyone.

Ronan looks tired, although that could just be the light. He jumps in without preamble, as is his way. “Is it always going to be like this?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says honestly. He doesn’t know what Ronan’s referring to exactly, but he can guess: The cross-country dates. Late nights on the phone. Delays and cancellations. The slow grinding of two lives forward into uncertainty.

His new business hasn’t come up specifically, but he knows it’s on Ronan’s mind too. It does sound like a crazy fucking idea to make money off their show. But someone was making money off of it before—why couldn’t he, Favs and Tommy figure it out?

“Listen,” Jon starts.

“If I work for myself, I can fly back and forth whenever you want. If I get staffed again, then it’s totally out of my hands. This could be really good.” Ronan is very still.

“I know it sounds ridiculous and it’s not, like, what I saw myself doing. But I want a year to try it. It could be the thing.” The thing he’s been looking for, he adds silently. Ronan gets it more than anyone how much Jon’s been trying to find it, whatever it is.

Ronan hiccups. “I know, I just miss you.” Jon pulls him in, even though he’s already warm and a little itchy in all his layers. Jon buries his nose in Ronan’s neck, listens to him breathe. He’ll hold him as long as possible if he gets to be here.

“It’s hard,” Ronan muses after a while, “doing these… adult things.”

“Speak for yourself, I never did.” Ronan snorts.

“Oh come on. You’ve gotten all distinguished and responsible.”

“You make me sound like I’m about to powder my wig and lose a toe from the gout.”

“Is it _the _gout, or just gout?”

“You’re my favorite pedant.”

“I know.” 

2015.

Dinner has broken up and Jon’s helping Mia clean up the kitchen when Frankie-Minh arrives.

“You know, even with all the help, I don’t think we’ll be adding the Feast of the Seven Fishes to the repertoire,” Mia says merrily. “So much _shelling_.” They’re both wearing goofy gloves Mia extracted from a drawer, to protect their hands against cuts from the errant fragments of shells scattered all over.

“It all turned out, though!”

“Did you try everything? I think I missed a fish or two. Oh, definitely the anchovies, for starters.” Mia raises her gloved hands and squeezes them together like lobster claws. At first there were shards and scales on every available scrap of counter, but gradually, they’re making progress.

Frankie-Minh and her boyfriend pile out of the cab with all their luggage and Jon sees himself in the new guy, shaking Mia for the first time over the threshold of the kitchen. The new guy has a bottle of wine in the crook of his arm with a gold bow pasted on—a good move. He shakes hands with the new guy, repeats his name a few times. Now Jon knows where all the spoons go and what to do if the fuse that governs the upstairs hallway goes out, but it wasn’t always like that. He remembers how badly he wanted to be accepted the first time.

Mia must sense it, because after she’s directed the new arrivals to take Ronan’s old bedroom on the west side of the house, she turns to Jon and says with conspiracy, “That’s the first one she’s ever brought home. So he must be good!” Jon laughs, because he doesn’t know what to add.

“I trust my children,” she goes on. “We don’t do that nonsense here with the separate bedrooms and sneaking around.” She snaps a towel and folds it neatly over the oven rail. “Not like we have the space anyway. I remember when Ronan brought you home for the first time.”

“It’s an exclusive club,” Jon cracks.

She puts her hand over his. “I knew you were special. We Farrows don’t throw open the doors to just anyone.”

“Anyway, Paper clearly approves of you,” she says. Mia’s new puppy Paper has been running in and out of the kitchen, looking plaintive and disappointed when no new food appears. Did Ronan tell her he was thinking about getting a dog?

It’s an endless fascination to Jon, how much she enjoys stacking the house full with her children every holiday, doesn’t lose steam even when faced with the mountains of chores it entails. Fran and Robert often have company, but he can’t say that his parents really enjoy it—they like it for a while, and then they go back to their old habits. Jon could almost show up on any random Tuesday and be welcomed with open arms.

He thinks of all the in-law jokes he’s heard. Maybe, just maybe, he’s destined to have the kind of life where he doesn’t have any to tell.

2014.

Jon’s flight is delayed and Ronan promises Mia he’ll stay up and wait for him so he doesn’t ring the doorbell.

Ronan’s relieved that the rest of the house is asleep when he shows up, because he wants Jon all to himself. They’ve been so busy, they haven’t seen each other in three months. So no one’s up to see him pull Jon in for a long kiss with the door still open, his suitcase stranded on the porch.

“Hello to _you too_,” Jon jokes. But Ronan knows he feels it too. They’ve been texting for days about what this reunion would look like, with a break only for the logistics necessary in getting from Los Angeles to rural Connecticut.

He’s grateful they’re in Sascha’s old bedroom way at the end of the hallway when Jon pulls him into bed, over him, wraps one leg over Ronan’s. He’s already hard and Ronan moans at the friction between them.

“God! I’ve fucking missed you,” Ronan says.

“Shhhhhh,” Jon says, his hands snaking around Ronan’s hips. “You’d better ride me face to face.”

“The things I want to do to you,” Ronan whispers. He sits up on Jon’s stomach, grinding on his dick. He pulls Jon’s sweatshirt and T-shirt over his head, revealing his soft muscled chest. Ridding himself of his own shirt, he gets back in close, pressing heat to heat, breathing Jon in.

“Take your pants off and show me,” Jon says. Once Ronan’s back, Jon’s hands are all over him, petting the thin skin below the waistband of his underwear, teasing closer and closer to his crack.

He tears himself away to dig for lube and condoms, shed the rest of his layers. He climbs back into Jon’s lap, smells his sweat and throws his arms around his neck and Jon lubes up a finger and slides it into him slowly. He’s gentle, but insistent with him, drawing out each stroke, making Ronan beg for it.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers, licking the confines of Jon’s ear to hear him groan and involuntarily thrust his hips up.

“I just want to know that you’re ready. Are you ready?”

“Fuck, Jon. Do it. Please.” Jon puts on a condom and Ronan lifts himself over him, sinking down slowly, loving the stretch, the way they fit together.

Jon’s already panting and his eyes are wide.

“Is this good?” he whispers.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Ronan says back. As Jon begins to roll his hips, Ronan loses himself in the moment, the way Jon’s cock presses into him, the sweetness and the pressure of not getting caught. Jon leaves him hanging right on the edge of coming for so long, and then it only takes a few strokes and Ronan’s coming all over both of them, Jon watching greedily from below before he thrusts up and loses himself, eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Ronan collapses on his chest, listening to Jon’s heart slow down, wanting to keep them together as long as possible.

The whole family goes caroling the next morning and thankfully, no one wakes them.

2013.

“I insist. I want to do it.”

“You _never _cook. I’ve never even seen you open your oven.”

“I use the stove! … Sometimes!”

“Name the last time.”

“I eat. I know what good food is. Besides, you can help. It’s following directions, how hard can it be?”

And that’s how Jon and Ronan end up in the parking lot of a Wegman’s, scrolling through a long list of ingredients instead of going straight to Mia’s.

“Why so much teff?”

“We’ll make 3 times the injera for the kids that aren’t gonna touch the stew.”

“Smart.”

The project planning of cooking a big dinner is what appeals to Jon. The timing, the proportions, the working towards one big common goal. It’s why he suggested to Mia that they do Ethiopia this year; he saw a documentary about a family there, and in the crowding around the table, elbows bumping over the stew, the cacophony of voices, he thought of Mia’s Chrismas. 

Besides, while he’s occupied with the meal, he can’t stop and think about what he and Ronan are going to do now that Ronan’s back in New York—and Jon can’t be with him. Whether, as his mom gently tried to put it, “you see yourself in his future.” If he doesn’t move right away, will Ronan ever forgive him? They said they would deal with it when Ronan got back from Oxford. That was the deadline. And now…

Daisy and Isaiah promise to handle the dishes, so Jon can sit and have dinner. The stew isn’t bad. But his pulse picks up when Ronan comes and sits down next to him.

“This was great,” Ronan says, looking at Jon steadily.

“I told you,” Jon quips, “it’s just a matter of following directions.”

“Too bad we never do repeats or I would say we should have it next year.”

“Maybe…” Jon’s voice cracks. “Someone will come up with something better, next year.” Self-pity looks so bad on him, but he can’t help himself. He looks down at his plate.

Ronan throws an arm around him. “Have you got any more?”

“That’s my intellectual property. You’ll have to get a license.” 

“How about a discount,” Ronan says, low in his ear. “For your bicoastal boyfriend.”

“Who is he? Have I met him?”

“_Jon_.” He kisses his forehead. “Come back here. What’s wrong?”

“I just thought that you—” Jon realizes he doesn’t have a way to end that sentence that doesn’t make him sound nuts. “Since you’re moving back. I didn’t know whether you wanted to keep seeing each other, with me still in California, and all.”

“That’s what you’re worried about? I’m just glad we’ll be closer!”

“But the deadline…”

“Oh, never mind that. I’ll get weeks off, and you’ll get weeks off, we’ll work it out.”

“But don’t you want…” Jon can’t finish the sentence over the lump in his throat.

“What I want is to be with you. This Christmas isn’t open to just _anyone_, you know.” Ronan strokes his side gently, squeezes his shoulder.

“But everyone says—“

“Who’s this ‘everyone’? I’ll deal with them later.” Jon lets Ronan turn his head, find his mouth willing and open. 

Ronan breaks the kiss only to say, “Don’t have a freak out alone. Have a freak out with _me_.”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said,” Jon says, and he almost means it.

2012.

“Setting a _what _on fire?”

“A straw goat. Dylan’s friend had it shipped in,” Ronan says, like there’s nothing unusual about it.

“But you didn’t do this last year.”

“Oh, we never did the same thing twice for Christmas. Except presents I guess.”

“Now you have to explain why that is.” Technically, Jon and Ronan are supervising the younger cousins at play. Really, they’ve all drifted to another room, but they’re still in the solarium, feet tucked up under the same blanket, blinking at but not making progress on a gargantuan puzzle.

“When we were little, Mom—”

“Alias Gammy Mia—”

Ronan blows his bangs out of his eyes, unconsciously adorable. “She wanted us to experience different cultures, so we spent Christmas somewhere else every year.”

“Wow, that must’ve been… strange.”

“How so strange?”

“I mean, for kids. Not to have a tradition.” Then again, nothing about Ronan’s upbringing was traditional, especially when Jon compares it to his own: First night of Hanukkah, latkes unless it’s a Friday, then it’s the second night. Fifth night of Hanukkah, all the gifts are socks. And so on, and so on.

“Anyway, several years ago Mom decided she wanted to have Christmas here. It’s a lot easier to get everyone to bring the kids if they know they’re going to the same place. But we still do some country’s tradition every year, just for fun.”

Jon looks out the window at the snowy woods. Usually _his _Christmas tradition was going to an empty movie theater and temporarily forgetting all the stores that weren’t open.

Not that he’s complaining, though. It’s just… _different_.

“And which one is the goat again?”

“Sweden! We’re also going to decorate pepparkakor, which are gingerbread-ish.”

“Do you always do another country’s food?”

“Well, what’s the fun in it if you don’t do that?” Jon didn’t have a good answer. He’d had his fill of latkes a few weeks ago, anyway.

“You’re not bothered by it, right?” Ronan studies him carefully. He hasn’t put in his contacts once since he’s been home, making him look even younger than he already is.

“By what?”

“Oh, the Christmas of it all.”

Jon shrugs. “It’s hard to avoid. But—I wanted to be here with you.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Ronan’s helpless smiles make this all more than worth it.

In the end, they rest the goat next to the pond and practically surround it in buckets. If Jon’s quick on the dousing, he doesn’t think the family will blame him.

“Feels more like something you’d do to summon an evil spirit,” he says to Ronan later.

“Don’t think you’re quite filled with the Christmas spirit yet.” Ronan tousles his hair through his winter hat.

“Well, let’s break out the Scotch then. That should help.”

2011.

“Do you go to midnight mass every year?” Jon casually asks to no one in the car in particular.

“Oh no!” Mia said. “I mean, my mother always went, Irish Catholic and so on. And when I was in school I wasn’t allowed to miss a week. But I just wanted to see if I missed it.”

“And did you?”

“The singing was nice. The sermon I could’ve done without.” She looks back at Jon and winks.

Jon’s a bundle of nerves. First Christmas with his new boyfriend’s family, and all he wants is to make a good impression. He was shocked, actually, when Ronan invited him—they’d only been exclusive for a few months.

But Jon would have followed Ronan anywhere, so there’s _that_.

The younger kids, energized by being encouraged to stay up late, are dozing by the time they all pull in to the big house. Jon helps one of them out of her seat and into the warm house with the lights down low.

Ronan’s been pretty quiet, next to him, hands folded neatly, all through the service. As they’re calling good night down the hall, though, he yanks Jon into their room, locks the door and presses him into it.

They break for a breath. “Is it okay?” Jon whispers. “Are _you_okay?” Ronan opens his mouth over Jon’s urgently, coaxing him to move in closer. Jon can’t decide where to touch him.

“…Okay, _what_is it about midnight mass?” he tries to joke, while also whispering because Ronan’s family is everywhere. For all Jon knows they’re hiding in the massive hulking armoire in their room, trying to catch him out.

“It’s you,” Ronan says low but definitive in his ear. “You look so hot.” His hand wanders down to where Jon is _definitely_providing some positive feedback to his boyfriend’s ministrations. _Very _positive. “It’s been torture, being near you for the last 8 hours and not getting to do this.”

“I’ve never had a…” He doesn’t know how to put it. A relationship like this? Something serious enough for the holidays, But all he can come up with is, “Are we allowed to do this?”

“I’ll show _you _what you’re allowed,” Ronan says with his leonine smile that turns Jon on unbearably. He presses Jon onto the bed, undresses him without so much as a joke and fingers him until Jon is biting the meat of his palm, sweating and straining, before stroking him till Jon comes all over himself with a shudder.

And then, still dizzy with it, Jon sucks Ronan’s cock on his knees while Ronan watches him, his face lit up like he’s just won the lottery. When he comes, he flops over Jon and comes to rest on the floor next to him, kissing him with abandon like Jon wasn’t just fucking his throat. He’s on the floor, at his boyfriend’s mom’s house, loose and warm and in love.

“Merry Christmas,” he cracks. “Or whatever the pagans say.”

“Actually, the pagans probably would’ve approved of that more.”

“Turns out they had a lot of good ideas.”

2019.

When they pull in, Mia is supervising his nieces and nephews shoveling out the driveway, which means most of them are drawing patterns in the fresh snow with a shovel and nothing is getting cleared, but at least everyone’s getting some fresh air.

“Look, the boys are here!” Ronan hears her say when he’s fetching their suitcases. “I insist you come in immediately. I made you something special.”

“Mom, you shouldn’t have!”

They leave their suitcases in the hallway at Mia’s insistence and are hustled into the kitchen, where they see a platter of pastries and a giant punchbowl with some milky liquid in it.

“Where are we this year?” Jon winks at Ronan.

“Puerto Rico!” Mia says. “I went to a fundraiser a few weeks ago for World Cares Kitchen, met Jose Andres, a _wonderful _man, and we had this lovely drink there, and here it is—coquito! It’s like eggnog, mixed with a piña colada. And of course quesitos to go with it.”

“Sounds like we’re going to midnight mass again.”

“Oh, I probably won’t. But you boys can if you want. Also, this _really _should be champagne,” Mia says apologetically. “But you’re probably tired of that by now.”

“I doubt it” calls Jon with a laugh. Three days off of work, Jon’s shoulders have dropped and his cheeks are red from crossing from cold train station to warm car. They spent the first few nights of Hanukkah with the Lovetts, and now they’re here, and of all the years Ronan’s taken his boyf—his _fiancé _home, this is always his favorite part. The people he loves, and the man he loves the most.

“Jon dear. I’m just so happy that you’re officially joining the family.” She squeezes his hand.

Of course, Mia was one of the first calls that they made over the Fourth, She’d been back at the farm then—no, wait, maybe in New York City—or was it Paris?—and she’d practically started crying. Ronan hadn’t let her know he was going to propose.

“Me too,” Jon says. Ronan can hear in his voice that _he’s _almost about to start crying himself. When Mia drops his hand, Ronan takes it.

Mia calls in the rest of the shoveling crew for pastries and eggnog (from the fridge for the kids). She’s running in and out of the house, and all around them small hands are grabbing for cups and napkins. But all Ronan can see is Jon.

Just then Quincy’s son tugs on Mia’s sleeve.

“Gammy Mia, Gammy Mia.”

“What is it, love?”

“When you went outside, I saw Uncle Ronan and Uncle Jon… KISSING!”

“Is _that _so?” Mia’s eyes are dancing. Jon blushes.

“And I’m about to do it again,” Ronan calls out. He pulls Jon in as fancy as he can figure out how, gives it an extra beat. Somebody hoots in the background.

“Why they do that?”

“That’s how people in love are.”

“Yup,” Ronan addresses his nephew directly. He squeezes Jon’s hand twice and Jon squeezes it back. “Better get used to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope Instagram never adds the ability to see how many times one person has watched one story, because most of my research for this was rewatching the Yule Log series on Ronan’s Instagram.


End file.
